


After the Apocalypse

by FantasyDragon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale/Crowley Marriage, Aziraphale/Crowley Marriage Proposal, Badass Aziraphale, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), aziraphale swearing, aziraphale/crowley fluff, heaven/aziraphale confrontation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-06-28 10:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyDragon/pseuds/FantasyDragon
Summary: Dealing with Heaven and Hell after the almost-Apocalypse.





	1. That Blessed Arrangment

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at posting something on AO3, so please be patient if the formatting is off/something's screwy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale try to figure out how to defend themselves against Heaven/Hell. Aziraphale suggests marriage.

Crowley and Aziraphle have been keeping a careful eye out ever since the apocalypse-that-wasn't, and neither of them are surprised when they start catching glimpses of their old coworkers. They meet up in Aziraphale’s bookshop with the intention of coming up a plan for when Heaven and Hell try, once again, to punish them. 

Crowley is alternately sprawled in an armchair or pacing, while Aziraphale sits at a desk facing him, hands steepled as he thinks. 

They both agree that they need an alternative to the face swap. It’s not viable long-term, and sooner or later Gabriel and/or Beelzebub will catch on. 

“We need a way for me to borrow your holiness,” Crowley starts, 

“And for me to borrow your, ah, blasphemousness,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“Yeah, at a moment’s notice.“ The demon throws himself back down on the chair in disgust, limbs pointing every different direction. 

“Some sort of, connection, I suppose, that will work on all planes.” Crowley makes a noise of agreement. 

For several long minutes, there is silence. Somewhere a clock ticks 

Aziraphale thinks of it first. 

“We could get married,” he offers hesitantly, suddenly nervous to look Crowley in the face. 

For possibly the first time in 6000 years, Crowley goes completely still. 

“What.” he gets out, but it’s not really a question. More of an expression of shock. 

“Matrimony is the joining of two souls before God,” Aziraphale hurries out his reasoning, “Theoretically, if we worded the vows right, it should allow each of us to borrow the other’s immunity, and it should function no matter where we were.” 

“Angel, do you really think that the Almighty,” the word has a twist on it that’s half anger, half sorrow, “Would recognize a marriage between us?” Crowley yanks off his glasses, catching Aziraphale’s eyes as if to underscore what he was. _With me?_ is what’s written on his face. 

“If you don’t want to, just say,” Aziraphale holds Crowley’s gaze. For a moment the two stare at each other, an angel and demon who’ve known each other since the very Beginning sitting in the back of a bookshop in Soho. 

Crowley snorts out something that may have been a laugh but is a bit too shaky and puts his glasses back on. Aziraphale politely pretends not to notice the tremor in his hands as he does. 

“Alright, Angel. Let’s get married.” 

* * *

They held the ceremony in a pub a block or two off St. James Park, a little place called Adam and Eve that Crowley had taken Aziraphale to some night in the 1830s. (A church was, of course, right out). 

Rings had not been discussed, but when the priest Aziraphale had talked into performing the ceremony asked, they each pulled out a box. 

Crowley gave Aziraphale an ouroboros that looked remarkably like he did when scaled, with two topaz chips for eyes. In return, Aziraphale gave him two silver wings that wrapped around to form a circle, a strip of sapphire lining where the two met. 

They swore that they would defend each other with mind, body, and soul. They swore that they would stand together in the good times and the bad. They swore that they would cherish the other through whatever life threw their way. 

In short, they swore to keep doing what they had been for over six millennia. 

At the end of the ceremony, Aziraphale asked one of the humans who had been eating there to sign as a witness. She smiled as she scrawled her signature on the line. 

“Oh, and Crowley,” she looked up as both of them stiffened in shock. They both recognized that voice, and her eyes now held the Universe– vast and ancient and ineffable. “To answer your question, I did plan it all this way. Well done with the apocalypse,” the Almighty handed them back their certificate, “and congratulations on your wedding!” She gave them both a pleased smile and walked out of the pub. 

“Apparently, She does recognize our marriage,” Aziraphale murmured to a still-stunned Crowley as he reviewed Her signature which simply read ‘I am.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ouroboros ring from Crowley comes from forineffablereasons on Tumblr.
> 
> The Adam and Eve pub actually exists two blocks-ish from St. James Park and is a legal place to get married in the UK as far as I could tell from some cursory research.
> 
> Thank you if you’ve read this far! This was my first try at writing fanfiction and I hope you enjoyed it.


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

A quick miracle slipped the certificate past the clerk who otherwise might've objected to a witness signature that read "I am." Crowley tried to argue Aziraphale into keeping it and hanging it on a wall, but the angel was firm that the whole business be done properly. 

"I, for one, do not want to run the risk that the whole thing fails to work because we didn't do one last step." 

Crowley hissed but satisfied himself with a copy. More than once Aziraphale walked in on him holding it, staring at the signatures. The angel was never sure if it was God's or theirs that he was focusing on, but decided to leave the demon to his thoughts. 

Miraculously, (Aziraphale protested that he had nothing to do with it. Crowley may have, but refused to admit to anything) both sides seemed to have missed that they had gotten married. Or at least, neither one was saying anything about it. 

Crowley took hanging around the bookshop, Bentley parked haphazardly in the front. (The fact that it never received a ticket was, in fact, a demonic miracle, but neither of them thought much of it.) Plants began to take up residence in the windows and corners. The grad students who wandered in and out began to carry with them stories of a giant snake curled up in sunny spots, slithering along bookshelves, and more and more frequently, draped around the owner like a feather boa. The most famous of these stories was one in which two students were holding a conversation with the strange white-haired owner and the snake began to slide off the top of one of the shelves. Right on to the owner's shoulders. Who merely adjusted his stance to take the weight and kept talking. 

Both swear they have no idea what was actually said as they watched in wide-eyed horror as the snake lazily coiled around his shoulders and gave the students an unblinking look with golden eyes before, for all intents and purposes, appearing to go to sleep. (Allegations that one of the students was attempting to flirt the owner out of a book have been furiously denied.) 

Aziraphale and Crowley began to make plans to add another two floors to the store—the first would be a proper living space, with a bedroom, kitchen, and all the other rooms the average human had. The second would be a soundproofed greenhouse for Crowley to grow his plants in. 

They both still caught glimpses of angels and demons out of the corner of their eyes, but as months passed and nothing happened, they both slowly relaxed. This was their normal now; easy going conversations, the gentle bickering that was a habit after six millennia, and a million new discoveries about each other now that they no longer had to pretend to be enemies. A beautiful normal. 

Right up until it wasn't, of course. 

The trouble started innocently enough. Anathema came by to chat and peruse the books, convincing Aziraphale to sell her one on the grounds that he had run off with The Prophecies of Agnes Nutter and returned it...toasted. As she was paying, she mentioned this nice little bakery Newt had taken her to for a date. 

Apparently, it had amazing crepes. 

Aziraphale barely had to turn to give Crowley his practically patented pleading look before the demon was asking if he'd like to go out tonight. 

There wasn't a lot Crowley wouldn't do to make his angel smile like that. A drive of an hour to watch him eat was nothing. 

So that evening they went out and got crepes, Aziraphale only slightly too dignified to bounce around excitedly as the server brought out plate after plate of thin pastries. 

"Might as well make an evening of it," Crowly pointed out, so they spent the rest of the night cheerfully sampling the quality of alcohol the nearby restaurants and pubs had to offer. As the night wore down they washed up in a club where a group of drunk teens spotted their rings and cornered them into going on the floor for the couples dance, ignoring Aziraphale's protests of two left feet. 

The place was slowly emptying as people trickled home, but the lights still flashed dimly and the music still played as Crowley and Aziraphale swayed gently on the floor, arms wrapped around each other. (If Anathema had been there at that moment, she would have seen two sets wings, one black, one white, wrapping around each other, shutting out the world.) 

The song ended and they slowed to a stop. 

"Ready to go home, my dear?" Aziraphale murmured to his husband. Crowley's arms tightened in a brief hug before releasing. 

"Let's sober up first. Be silly to stop the apocalypse only to get discorporated in a crash." 

Restaurants the next day wondered where the extra bottles of wine and brandy and whiskey had come from, but most of them shrugged and accepted it. A couple of the more enterprising employees decided that if the bottle were supposed to be gone, why, then it was their duty to make them gone. 

It was with easy chatter about an exotic plant Crowley was considering, ah, acquiring, that they wandered back to the Bentley and worked their way down the deserted rural roads, the clock inching closer to dawn. 

Something was on the road that had not been there a second earlier. 

Crowley swerved wildly, sending the car into the ditch by the side of the road with the sound of cracking glass and screeching metal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next section was getting a bit long, so I split it in two. The next one's much more exciting, I promise, but I wanted to explore some more fluffy headcanons.


	3. Principalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale defends Crowley.

Firm hands dragged Crowley out of the wreck and suddenly he was soaked with something that made him tingle in a vague, unpleasant way.  _ This what humans are talking about when they say pins and needles?  _ he wondered blearily, ears ringing from the crash.

Aziraphale blinked and realized he was flat on his back on the road and—that was Michael staring down at him with a critical look on her face. He scrambled back and onto his feet in a rather undignified way.

"Michael! What are--"

"Holy water doesn't work. Even looking at it I still have trouble believing it." Aziraphale jerked his head around to see Sandalphon and Uriel gripping Crowley's arms as he staggered in place, disorientated. In front of him was Gabriel, sharply dressed as always, examining Crowley in the manner of a curious child studying an interesting bug.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel glanced over at the angel with a grin that made him tense, "Didn't think we would leave you two alone forever did you?" His purple eyes caught on something, and he frowned. "What's that on your finger?"

"Looks like a wedding ring," Sandalphon provided, "Like humans get."

"I know that," Gabriel snapped, turning back, "But why--" he caught sight of Crowley's left hand.

"Well," Michael commented in the sudden silence, "I would like to say how unexpected, but it's really not."

"Do you really think," Gabriel snarled, "That the Almighty would recognize a union between a demon and an angel? How dare you profane matrimony like this!" Crowley laughed, sounding a little drunk.

"Oh, She recognized it mate. Her signature's on the paper and everything." He grinned wickedly at the archangel. "Believe me, I wasn't expecting it either." 

"Gabriel," Aziraphale tried to cut in, Michael holding him back.

"That's it," the archangel bit out--

"I really don't think--"

"Holy water may not work--"

"Leave him--"

"So I guess we'll have to try other methods." Crowley's grin flickered and went out.

"Uhh. Today's not really a good day for me. Maybe next week?" Gabriel pulled a flaming sword into existence and Uriel and Sandalaphon took a step back to give him room to swing.

"First," he said tightly, "let's get rid of the body."

He swung. 

There was a loud clang.

The world went perfectly, unbearably still. 

To the east, the sky lightened.

It had been a long, long, time since two angelic swords crossed, but neither the earth nor the stars had ever forgotten. They were frozen, waiting to see what would happen.

Aziraphale stood in front of Crowley, his own sword blocking Gabriel's downswing, holding it effortlessly in midair. His head was bowed.

"Do you know," mused Aziraphale in a tone that Crowley didn't think he'd ever heard from the angel before, "That I gave my sword to Adam? The Adam from the Garden, I mean."

"What--" Gabriel started in an angry tone.

"He needed it, of course, just have been cast out and all, but that was only part of the reason," Aziraphale continued speaking in that soft, thoughtful voice that had everyone frozen in place. There was a pressure in the air, like a storm beginning to form.

"I hated the War you know. The first one. The demons had been our friends, our family, and yes they were arguing with Her, yes they were doubting. But are we not supposed to forgive? Are we not supposed to show mercy? Instead, there was blood and death and pain and then a third of us were simply gone, and the rest of us couldn't even remember their names. Their faces."

"Angelic swords,"  Aziraphale raised his head now, and his eyes were glowing and behind him wings were spreading and they had eyes of their own that were staring  staring staring \-- "Are made from the essence of the one who owns them. They are a part of our being. That part of me—that part of me that had fought, had led, had  _ warred _ —I couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the sight of it.  So I took the first opportunity I had to give it away."

"Through all the centuries, through all the millennia, I couldn't have called it back to me if you asked. I didn't want it. After the first time, I never wanted to fight again." Aziraphale stepped closer to Gabriel and forced their swords higher. 

There were six wings spread behind Aziraphale now, each feather with an eye that stared at one of the angels. The two set in his face where white and burning with fires that spilled over the edges like tears, but Aziraphale's face had never been so still. Around him reality was groaning as a shape, a form, an entity that was never meant to exist in this dimension churned around him.

There  was a  _ reason _ angels' first words were do not be afraid.

"I suppose I should congratulate you," Aziraphale breathed, "You've given me a reason to pick my sword back up. Isn't that what you wanted? For me to fight?" There was panic peeking around Gabriel's eyes, and it looked as though it was taking every inch of his power not to step back, to disengage, to run.

Dawn was breaking.

"Did you forget," Aziraphale breathed, "that I am the Principality of the Eastern Gate you fucking piece of shit?"

"I. Outrank. You." 

Gabriel's own wings were out now, spread and fluffed up, a panic response as his arm trembled. At some point, their swords had switched positions so that he was blocking, trying desperately to keep Aziraphale's sword from slicing through him.

The shape that was never meant to exist in this plane of existence did the equivalent of baring its teeth and pretending it was a smile.

"Aziraphale," Crowley called from behind him. The Principality didn't turn around, but their attention shifted. Crowley's glasses had been damaged in the crash, and at some point they had fallen off. The demon was soaked, normally lively hair pressed flat against his head. Gently, he extended a hand, extended a piece of his own true nature, and pressed against his angel's back, where all the wings came out, in this dimension and in as many of the others as he could reach. 

If  Aziraphale was the heart of the sun rising in the east, Crowley was drifting nebulae in the emptiness of space, black holes singing the loss of all they had been.

"He's not worth it," he sighed to his spouse, "None of them are."

(Later he would snort about it to himself. A demon counseling peace.)

Some of the tension went out of Aziraphale, and they refocused on Gabriel.

"And the Lord said to forgive seventy times seven," they told him quietly. "I have forgiven much of you Gabriel." Everyone's ears popped and suddenly it was just Aziraphale again. A little pudgy, a little short, a bookkeeper in London Soho. 

But still he stared evenly at Gabriel and leaned in.

"If you ever try to interfere with us again, if you ever dare hurt him, I will rip your name from the Book of Truth myself and grind whatever remains of you after into dust. Do you understand?" 

Gabriel nodded frantically, and Aziraphale disengaged with a slither of steel and a crackle-pop of fire. 

Immediately Gabriel stumbled backward and there was a series of whoomphs as all the angels retreated back towards Heaven.

Aziraphale watched them go, face closed off. Crowley left him to his thoughts for a few minutes while he miracled the Bentley back onto the road and functional again. Then he meandered back, his sunrise shadow tangling with Aziraphale's.

"Ready to go home, angel?" Aziraphale blinked, long and slow and tired before nodding. Crowley gently guided him back into the car before clambering and driving off as the sun climbed into the sky.

They were silent the whole way back. A couple of times Crowley glanced worriedly over at Aziraphale who was staring quietly out the window. The sword was sheathed and leaning against his leg while he absent-mindedly traced designs on the pommel.

When they reached the  bookshop Crowley parked with more care than usual.  Aziraphale still seemed to be wrapped up in his own thoughts, moving slowly to get out of the car and unlock the door. The angel stood in the center of the room and looked so unbearably  lost, sword clutched in one hand.

"What are you thinking?" Crowley asked softly, tilting Aziraphale's head up so that their eyes met. He hadn't put on another pair of sunglasses yet. 

"I don't...I don't know." The angel forced a hand through his hair. "I'm thinking that it was nice to stretch my wings. I'm thinking that I picked up my sword and it felt good in my hands. I'm thinking that I'm horrified by how much I wanted to hurt Gabriel. I'm thinking that I would do it all again, do everything I threatened in a heartbeat if it meant...if it meant keeping you safe. I'm thinking that that should worry me, but it doesn't." Aziraphale looked back up at Crowley, and he looked so helpless that Crowley reached out and hugged him hard, chin resting on the top of his angel's head. 

"Don't be horrified angel. You defended us. All the other angels—they're meant to be soldiers. Meant to start fights and end them. Meant for war. You though—well you said it. You're the guardian of the eastern gate. You're meant to defend what's already there, to protect new beginnings and fresh starts. That's what we are, isn't it? A new beginning."

"Besides, did you see the look on that purple-eyed wanker's face? I'm going to treasure that memory for the next century at least."

Aziraphale choked out a laugh against Crowley's chest and the demon smiled as the last of the angel's tension melted away.

"Thank you, my dear," he smiled as he stepped back. "You think that will keep them away for good?" Crowley snorted.

"Well we proved your marriage idea worked—I'm officially immune to holy water, and I'd guess the same goes for you and hellfire.  So they're not sure how to kill us, and I'm pretty sure you scared them enough that  Heaven’s  not going to keep trying." 

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Aziraphale seemed to be regaining his normal good cheer, even if there were still bags under his eyes.

"C'mon angel. Let's get you some sleep."

"But the bookshop..."

"I'll run it for you." His angel didn't like selling books, Crowley knew, but he also understood that right now  Aziraphale wanted the anchor of his faux humanity, wanted to worry about mundane things like who would take care of his shop while he was resting. The angel gave him a grateful smile.

"That is very much appreciated, dear." Aziraphale turned to go off into the back rooms where he kept a bed when Crowley stopped him.

" Oh and angel?"  Aziraphale looked back. Crowley grinned, wicked and delighted, "'Fucking piece of shit?’ Didn't know you had it in you." The angel blushed and stuttered.

"Well it seemed appropriate at the time--" Crowley laughed, open and free as the city woke up around them and sunlight poured like a blessing through the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angelic hierarchies you find with a quick google put principalities above archangels, which I thought would be interesting to see Aziraphale actually make use of.  
> The swearing is self-indulgence and I have no regrets.  
> I drew from Milton's _Paradise Lost_ for the bits about angelic swords, a third of Heaven falling, and angels losing their names when they fall.


	4. Supersoakers

Three days later, Aziraphale’s sword was quietly picked up by a shipping company. 

“You don’t want to keep it?” Crowley double-checked as Aziraphale bustled about, opening up the bookshop. The angel paused thoughtfully as he settled behind the counter. 

“It does contain some of... well, me, I suppose, but I like to think it’s doing some good out there in the world. Not all wars are fought for the wrong reasons.” Crowley heard the spaces between the words and understood what his angel wasn’t saying. _I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to war._

“Besides,” Aziraphale continued, “If worst comes to worst, I’m fairly certain I can call it back to me now.” 

“Nnngyeah, I guess that’s a good point,” the bookshop was full of sun, and Crowley was resisting the urge to find a bright corner to curl up in. Course, behind the register was pretty bright too... 

There was a jangle from the door and loud chatter spilled into the bookshop. The angel and the demon turned and saw a tangle of limbs, hair, and children that eventually resolved itself to be Them. 

“Hello Crowley, hello Aziraphale,” Adam greeted them cheerfully from the front of the pack, Dog eyeing Aziraphale suspiciously at his feet, “Mum and Dad are a few stores down, and they said we could come wait in here as long as we promised to be good.” 

“Errm, yes, hello.” Aziraphale blinked as Brian meandered toward a stack of particularly old first editions with his fingers covered in what appeared to be melted chocolate. Wensleydale was headed toward some old encyclopedias and Pepper was scanning the whole area with a disproving look. Crowley was considering the dignity of staging a strategic retreat and whether or not that was considered bad form in front of the former Antichrist. 

“Wicked!” Adam exclaimed delightedly, “You’ve got the books!” and made a beeline for the red covers that hadn’t been there before the Apocalypse-that-wasn't. 

Crowley was slithering towards the back when Aziraphale gave him a desperate look. Crowley shook his head frantically. Aziraphale switched to pleading and the demon’s shoulder’s slumped. He never could resist that look. 

"Not very sportsmanlike,” he murmured to his angel as he strode back into the bookshop. 

“I have no idea what you mean, I’m sure,” Aziraphale responded with a grateful smile. Crowley snorted, 

“Sssure you don’t, angel,” he responded lazily as he snapped his fingers. Brians's hands were suddenly free of chocolate as he tugged out a faded book. “All right you lot, keep your hands off the merchandise. These are all expensive, so unless you want to be paying for them...” 

“But they’re just grubby old books,” Pepper complained. Aziraphale’s eye twitched. “How can they be expensive?” 

“Maybe they’ve got stuff hidden inside them?” Wensleydale suggested. “Like rubies or daggers!” 

“Adam?” Aziraphale sharply interrupted the conversation, “What is it?” Adam had reached the window where the red-covered books were kept and had gotten as far as taking one out before he had frozen. 

“They’re coming,” he sighed in a thoughtful tone. “And they’re not pleased with either of you.” The rest of Them paused and looked over at Adam. Half faded memories of a forest and a storm tugged at them uneasily, and they all bunched together. 

“Who’s coming, my dear boy?” 

“His lot,” Adam gestured vaguely to Crowley, “The person with the flies. And others. Lots of others.” Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged grim looks. 

“Alright kiddos, time for you all to head out. Go on, shoo,” Crowley did his best to shove them towards the door. 

“But we want to help!” protested Adam. 

“You don’t want to be involved with this. The last time was bad enough,” Aziraphale stepped out from behind the counter, closing the register. 

“But I bet we can be really useful! We’ve played war _loads_ of times!” 

“Yeah, and I’m sure we’ve got lots of good ideas!” 

“Like what?” Aziraphale tartly asked Them. They all considered for a moment. 

“I saw a movie on TV where demons can’t cross holy water,” Wensleydale offered, “We could ring the place with the stuff!” Crowley winced slightly, six-thousand-year-old habits being hard to break. 

“Demons can step over holy water just fine,” Aziraphale responded, casting a worried look at Crowley, “they just can’t touch it.” 

“Or else what?” Brian asked. 

“Or else they melt,” the angel snapped, trying once more to herd them to the door. 

“Supersoakers,” Adam announced thoughtfully. Everyone paused, and after some consideration, the rest of the Them began nodding. 

“Super-what now?” Aziraphale asked confusedly. 

“Supersoakers and water balloons,” Adam repeated and added, the idea growing wonderfully in his mind. 

“Brilliant,” breathed Brian. 

“It’ll be just like that grand old fight last summer with Greasy Johnson,” Pepper added delighted. 

Aziraphale passed a confused glance to Crowley. 

“They may be on to something here angel,” the demon admitted, “I’ve seen what they’re talking about in stores. It’s these guns that shoot water, and balloons that are full of it that you throw at people. Wouldn’t be too hard to fill with holy water. Even less difficult to miracle some up. Supersoakers and water guns, that is. You can take care of the holy water?” 

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale agreed. (It must be noted that the angel was still rather fuzzy on this whole ‘supersoakers’ idea, although he had a vague memory of some children in the park throwing water balloons. Crowley was not much better off, supersoakers and water balloons not being much use in mischief that he had had to report to Down Below.) 

“Now can we stay?” asked Brian hopefully. 

The word ‘no’ was on the edge of Aziraphale’s lips when Crowley glanced out the window and reported, 

“It doesn’t look like you have much of a choice.” Aziraphale followed his gaze. 

Heaven had come with quality and cleverness. 

Hell came with quantity and brute force. 

Cars were screeching to a stop outside as a thick ring of demons began to close in on the shop. 

Crowley snapped his fingers hastily and a pile of brightly colored plastic guns and a bucket of empty balloons appeared on the floor of the shop. 

“Fill, please,” Aziraphale murmured and the guns that had already been snatched up by Them were suddenly heavier, and the bucket was heaping with filled balloons. 

Aziraphale sighed or shouted or sang a word in a language that set the world around them vibrating like a plucked string and had Crowley twitching like someone had just dropped an ice cube down his back. 

“Sorry dear,” Aziraphale offered a quick apology but Crowley waved it off. 

“Didn’t even sting,” he responded as he cautiously scooped up one of the remaining supersoakers. There was a crash from outside. 

“That car just ran into a hydrant!” Pepper announced indignantly. Both angel and demon grimaced. 

“I don’t suppose you could freeze time again, keep the humans out of it?” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley let out a low hiss as he thought it over. 

“I could for a little bit, but I’m not sure I could hold it for long.” 

“Could you start it up and then pass it over to me to hold, do you think?” Crowley considered. 

“Maybe. Can’t say anyone’s ever tried it before.” 

“Well, there’s a first time for everything. And I can’t say I’d be much use with those, ah, ‘supersoakers’ of yours.” 

“Crowley!” came a buzzing voice from outside. There was the noise of screeching metal. 

Crowley snapped his fingers. 

The world paused. 

Something you must understand is that angels, and by extension, demons, are primarily noncorporeal beings. They’ve gotten used to being corporeal, of course, (especially in the case of Aziraphale and Crowley) and Heaven and Hell have both patterned themselves after the corporeal world to deal with the influx of human souls. 

But angels and demons still remember before the Beginning. Back when they were nothing but song and thought in the pure void before creation. Humans, on the other hand, have never been anything _but_ corporeal. 

This makes it rather difficult to explain the following interaction. You’ll just have to accept what amounts to a copy fuzzed by a bad machine reflected twice by funhouse mirrors. 

Crowley held back the flow time with sheer willpower. 

_Now what?_ He wondered trying to figure out how to hand it to Aziraphale. 

_Here, I think,_ Aziraphale sighed against his soul, whispering down a thick cord that Crowley suddenly saw stretching between them. 

He examined it, fascinated for a moment, an eternity. Time was relative. 

The outermost layer he recognized with a start as their marriage (a small pub, four signatures, rings of wings and snakes, love so pure it took Crowley’s breath away). But beneath that... 

Beneath that the cord (Crowley fancied it looked like ivy, growing more strands and getting thicker every year) was woven of thousands of moments, words, and thoughts. With a start the demon recognized the church where he had saved Aziraphale’s books (names and fire and realizations), the time the angel had ‘tempted’ him into eating oysters (the roles are blurring and conversations are being woven of air and energy), and at the very core, a spidersilk thread that was them standing on the wall discussing Aziraphale’s flaming sword (the taste of apples the sting of the fall the concern of the guardian). 

There was a gentle nudge from Aziraphale, and Crowley carefully handed over his grip on time. Aziraphale seized it, bracing himself to take the load. 

Crowley rocketed back to his corporeal form and hefted the supersoaker. 

“Got it angel?” he asked Aziraphale who was standing there with a look that was an odd cross between deep concentration and absent-mindedness on his face. 

“I won’t be much good for anything else,” Aziraphale spoke slowly, much of his mind obviously elsewhere, “but I can hold it.” 

“Boy, Adam, go take Aziraphale to the back room, shut the door, and come back,” Crowley commanded. Adam, to his credit, saw the frozen people, Aziraphale’s face, put two and two together and (his teachers would say remarkably) came up with four. 

“This way Mr. Fell,” he gently grabbed the angel’s arm and led him to the back room. Crowley watched them go with concern. That was a lot of focus being directed elsewhere, especially for a celestial being. 

Inside Aziraphale’s head, he was getting a crash course on black holes. You see, despite everything and all the millennia in between, Crowley still remembered wistfully the days when he built stars and nebula and the great celestial spheres. 

So when he needed to build something in a hurry, starstuff is what he automatically reverted to, whether he recognized it or not. 

Crowley can affect time because he built the galaxy and so he knows how it works; more to the point, he knows the blueprint for a black hole, a minuscule object with a gravity so great it can slow, slow...stop time. 

That was what Aziraphale was dealing with in his head at the moment, and later he would claim that it was a perfectly reasonable thing to be distracted by. 

“CROOOOWLEY,” Beelzebub snarled again. 

“Stay here,” he muttered to the rest of Them. 

Then he hefted his supersoaker and stepped out the door of the shop, pasting on his most smarmy smile. 

“Hello there Lord Beelzebub! And how are you doing on this fine day?” 

“How’s your boyfriend?” Dagon grinned at him, baring her shark-teeth. 

“My _husband’s_ well, thank you for asking,” Crowley responded waving his left hand airily to display the ring. “Sorry we didn’t invite you to the ceremony, but it was a small affair, not a lot of room...You know what, that was a lie, I’m not sorry at all.” 

The demons all went silent for a minute until Beelzebub spoke up. 

“Get him and bring me the angel!” the Lord of the Flies buzzed in an eerie crescendo that had the whole world shuddering. 

The demons charged. 

Crowley retreated, falling back to the threshold and then spinning in place. He raised the supersoaker and pressed the trigger. 

Out of the windows, Them did the same. 

Crowley and Aziraphale had no idea how supersoakers worked except in the vaguest of terms. So, neither of them saw anything wrong with giving the water coming out of the supersoaker roughly the same velocity as water exiting a firehose. 

“Wicked!” cheered Adam, bracing against a nearby bookshelf as the force of the spray nearly knocked him backward. 

As the water hit the demons they were knocked back and started to dissolve. Their shrieking and silvery light filled the air. Somewhere, Dog was yapping at the oncoming horde. 

Crowley bared his teeth and kept spraying, not noticing as black scales with red tints crept along his arms and face, as his spine seemed to stretch and start flexing in ways that human anatomy did not precisely allow. 

“Get the water balloons!” Pepper called to Brian, who Crowley was vaguely aware of as he darted back into the shop to grab the bucket. 

Mostly though, Crowley was focused on not letting the demons through. 

Not twice, was the desperate mantra running through his mind, not twice would he lose Aziraphale in this bookshop. 

Crowley’s power snaked around the battered store, encasing it securely. The water in the supersoakers never ran out. There always seemed to be another layer of balloons in the bucket when Brian dragged it over. 

The demons came and the demons fell. Crowley’s hands had been splashed with so much holy water that they had gone numb. He couldn’t feel to pull the trigger anymore, but still the water came. 

Then there was a feeling like someone had slugged him in the gut, but a thousand times worse. All the air rushed out of his lungs and Crowley swore that in some distant part of his mind he could hear that breath leave him, a drawn-out wave crashing on a slate-grey shore. 

He collapsed to his knees, supersoaker clattering to the ground. 

“RETREAT,” bellowed Beelzebub and immediately there were cracking noises as all the remaining demons plummeted through the Earth, falling back to the safety of Hell. 

It took a single desperate instant for Crowley to trace the terrible sensation to its source. 

He had wrapped his power around the bookshop, and something had shattered it. Something had shattered it _on its way out_. Crowley was already spinning, already moving faster than he had ever in his long, immortal life as time restarted behind his back. 

“What--” Adam started to ask as Crowley slammed past him to the back room. 

The door hit the wall with a crack and then fell off its hinges. 

Not that a door off its hinges stood out much in the room. 

There were chairs tipped over and books knocked everywhere in a mess Crowley knew his angel would never allow. 

His angel. 

His angel, who looked to have been inconveniently discorporated once again. 

His angel, who's body dissolved into white light as he watched and who's soul, when he looked, could be found nowhere on earth. 

A piece of paper popped into existence midair. Crowley snatched it up before it could hit the floor. 

_The angel is ours. I look forward to paying him back for your stunt with the M25. --_ _Hastur_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the cliff hanger (kinda), but this was dragging on and I wanted to get it over with so I could get to the next part.  
> The black-holes thing is my personal headcanon for why Crowley can stop time-- a skill that seems unique to him.  
> The supersoakers and water balloons idea comes from various discussions I've seen on Tumblr. I thought it was hilarious and wanted to include it.


	5. Diving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley goes to Hell to get Aziraphale back

“What’s wrong?” Adam asked as Them crowded into the back room. 

Crowley blinked. 

He was on his knees. He didn’t remember getting there. 

The note was crumpled in his fist. He watched impassionately as his fingers uncurled and dropped it. 

“I think he’s in shock,” Pepper said, fascinated. To Crowley, it sounded as though it was coming from a great distance away, as though he was in a bubble. 

“Somethings wrong,” Adam worried. Dog scampered over, sniffed at Crowley and let out a surprisingly deep bark that rippled through the room. 

Crowley’s bubble popped. 

“Get out,” he hissed at them, scales surfacing on his skin. 

“Wait a minute–” Wensleydale started to protest. 

“They have taken Aziraphale,” Crowley bared his teeth. Thunder rumbled outside. “Where I need to go to get him back, you should pray you never see.” 

Adam gave him an appraising look. There was a twist behind his eyes that looked strange on an eleven-year-old, a subtle reminder that he had been the Antichrist– that he had stood before Death, angels, demons, and the Devil himself and said no them all. 

“Come on guys, let's go. Let us know when you get him back.” The Them all filed out, unnerved by the red-black scales and the hissing undertone of Crowley’s words. 

_When you get him_ _back._ Behind his glasses, Crowley closed his eyes, hoping that it was indeed a when and not an if. 

He leaned back against an armchair (Aziraphale’s armchair, his favorite that he’d gotten in a sale during the late 1800…) and took a deep breath. 

The demon couldn’t get to Hell through official routes, not anymore. Which meant he had to use the backdoor. 

“I hate traveling like this,” he muttered to no one in particular before wriggling his soul out of his body. 

Then, Crowley dove. 

Their memories of before the Fall were fuzzy at best– a side effect of having their name stripped from the Book of Truth. They had been a different person then, but they still remembered with painstaking clarity what had stripped the clouds out from under them. 

They had asked why. 

All of the angelic language was song, and Crowley thought that, once upon a time, perhaps, they had been a great singer of it. On the days when the memories were clearer, they thought perhaps they had been an archangel. 

But that ‘why’ had rippled through the crowd far harder than its vibration warranted. Its echo had been made of “we do not question” and “have you no faith?“, but Crowley had let their question stand, a jagged black mountain in a sea of rolling grass. 

They had not bent. They had not bowed. 

And so the clouds no longer supported their feet and they fell. 

Some ancient scholar had theorized it took nine days for the Devil’s army to reach the Earth. Add in the caveat that a thousand years was like a day to God, and you would be close to the time Crowley spent plummeting downwards. 

The first day they felt the moment their name was struck from the Book. They felt as that gift from Her, that Word that had called them into existence, was cut free from them with all the grace of an early surgeon removing a limb. They begged for it back and heard nothing. 

The next seven days were spent hurtling through the void, dodging past stars and black holes, trying desperately to catch onto the nebulas they thought-- they knew they had created such a short time ago, only to have them twist through their hands like smoke. 

Crowley still remembered the moment they had hit the atmosphere. 

Their wings had always been dark, but once they had been filled with the galaxies he had created and watched over. With the touch of oxygen, those star-filled galaxies had all gone supernova. They had arched their back and screamed, a sonic boom circling outward. Some of those stars collapsed, forming black holes that ate away everything that was left until there was only darkness in their feathers. 

Then they hit the earth. 

Their wings shattered, and would never be quite the same, never again strong enough to carry them up to Heaven. Clay coated them, where before they had been nothing but song and starlight and soul. 

Such was the force of his Fall that they kept going for another nine days until they finally slowed to a stop in the red-lit sulfurous cavern where the demons made their home. 

They were heading back to that cavern now, but in many ways, this journey was the opposite they had made before the Beginning. 

For one, they had abandoned their body on earth and this time were left with their true form. 

There were other differences too, of course. 

Last time they had been Falling 

This time they were diving. 

Last time, they had been leaving behind everything they knew. 

This time they were headed towards the only thing they did know. 

God’s fond of irony like that. 

They folded their wings into shadows and smoke as they surfaced in Hell. Amongst the flickering light and drips, they were just one more dark patch, one more off-kilter noise. Crowley had been slipping in and out for centuries. No one noticed them. 

They stole along damp hallways, a whisper, the ghost of someone else’s shadow. 

Where would they be keeping him? Crowley thought to theirself as they slipped through a group of damned souls. Where would they put an angel? 

Legion came by, and Crowley flattened against the wall to allow all of him to pass by. 

Of course, the answer came to them while they waited, an angel down here is a prize. The conference room.

When the demons had first landed in Hell, they had carved out a room where all of them could meet and discuss their next step. No one used it much anymore, but it was still considered the heart of Hell. As much as Hell could be said to have a heart. 

Crowley slithered through the halls until they found the right door, then squeezed theirself under the crack. 

The room was large and small all at once; capable of expanding and contracting to fit hundreds of beings to whom size was an optional feature. It also had not been updated since Ceasar came into power. It still looked like a dark, damp, Greek theater, a cavea in not much better shape than the ones still standing on Earth. It was tiered, semicircle affair, rows of benches descending to a flat floor, where the speaker would stand. Crowley was at the very highest level, looking down. 

“Is he still sleeping?” buzzed a familiar voice. 

“He won’t wake up.” muttered an unpleasant, easily identified demon. Hassssstur, Crowley hissed angrily in their mind. Their smoke-and shadow form shifted into something adjacent to a familiar, serpentine one, and they peeked their head down at the bottom of the theater. 

At the bottom of the cavea, a large bonfire blazed. Around it stood Dagon, Hastur, and Beelzebub. 

“Is something wrong with him?” Dagon asked the other two. 

“D’ I look like an angel expert?” Hastur grumbled back at her, “I don’t see any injuries.” 

“We lost a lot of demons in the attack,” Beelzebub cut in, “I want to see some use being made of him.” 

There was silence for a moment, and Crowley tried to peer closer at them. They were obviously talking about Aziraphale, but where was his angel? And why was he asleep? 

“I can’t believe they used holy water,”Hastur mumbled. 

“I can’t believe they’re married,” Dagon shot back. 

“Do you see a better explanation for that?!” the lord of flies gestured at the fire. 

And Crowley finally saw. 

In the heart of the fire, hovering in what the humans called the fetal position (did that still work for angels? a part of Crowley’s mind wondered blankly. They’d never been fetuses after all) was Aziraphale. Two of his white wings were out, buoyed open by the heat from the blaze. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed, and for all intents and purposes, he did seem to be asleep. 

“It’s just plain–” Hastur started to speak. 

Crowley stopped hiding. 

A star going supernova explodes with the force of 10^44 joules of energy. This is enough power to keep New York City shining bright for a nonillion years. (Yes, that is a real number. Yes, it is very large. Look it up.) 

Crowley’s power made a supernova look like a cherry bomb. 

They were no longer shadow and smoke, they were the void of space and the raging shriek of black holes, the death spasms of stars and the absolute stillness of true zero when even the atoms of the universe waited with bated breath. 

They were a serpent, they were a human, they were a demon; they were the beat of drums and the wail of a guitar rebelling against a world that told it to be silent. Their wings were not the nothing of Death’s, but they were close. 

Everyone suddenly remembered that even a former archangel was a Force to be Reckoned With. 

Crowley slitheredracedstrode down the stairs faster then the other demons could move and coiled around Aziraphale’s still form, scalesfeathers brushing against Aziraphale’s soft wings. 

“Crowley,” snarled Hastur, not quite brave enough to step forward. 

_Hassssstur_ , Crowley whisperscreamed in reply, _If a single one of his feathers has been singed, you'll be going the same way as Ligur._

“And what are you going to do witthhhh him,” Beelzebub buzzed, “He doesn’t have a body anymore and you don’t have anywhere to get him another.” 

_Thank you for your_ _concccccern_ _, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out._

A part of Crowley’s essence was eyeing the way back up to earth. Long is the way and hard, they thought grouchily. Milton had that right at least. The journey up out of Hell on his own was hard enough as it was; towing Aziraphale along would leave them dangerously slow and exposed. They carefully jostled the angel, trying to wake him up. Aziraphale mumbled something unintelligible and tucked his wings in closer, like a child tugging their blankets up when a parent tried to wake them. 

_What did you do to him_ , they hissedsnarled. 

Hastur got a smirk on his face and Crowley knew the next thing out of his mouth was going to be something designed to hurt them. 

So they hit him with their tail. 

He crashed into the seats, and lay there, moaning. 

Dagon took an involuntary step back, but Beelzebub held their ground. 

_What. Did. You. Do. To. Him._ Crowley flared their wings, their power coiling up higher and higher. 

Beelzebub held for another second before breaking. 

“Nothing,” they spat, “we did nothing to him. Hastur said he found him like that. Though what could exhaust an angel enough to pass out is beyond me.” 

The time stop, Crowley realized. Holding it must have worn him out. 

Dagon was shifting slowly towards the door, and Crowley swung their attention towards her. She froze. 

We can’t stay, Crowley thought, frustrated. We’re going to have to risk it. 

An idea sprouted in their mind, and they shifted a few of their coils closer to Aziraphale. 

_I_ _ssssssuposssse_ _you’re lucky you found him asleep,_ they breathedshouted , _You_ _ssssssshould_ _really talk to Michael about what he nearly did to Gabriel when the_ _angelssssss_ _made their play a few_ _daysss_ _ago._ They passed the other demons a very fanged grin. _Oh, and if you give_ _usss_ _any trouble ever again, I will make a link from the_ _Pacccific_ _Ocean_ _ssstraight_ _to Hell and have him_ _blesssss_ _the whole thing_ _asss_ _it drainsss. It’ll make the number of demons you lost today look like loossse change._

Dagon scoffed. “You can’t do that!” 

Crowley grabbed the essence of Hell with a handclaw and spared a second to examine it. 

God enjoyed music, always had, and so all of Her creations were composed, in part, of song. Crowley found the vibrating strings of Hell and strummed them in a discordant screech. They showed the others exactly how they could, in fact, create a link to the Pacific. (Crowley decided not to mention that holding it open might be beyond anyone’s strength but Hers.) 

Dagon and Beelzebub were left trembling and more whey-faced than usual. 

_LEAVE USSS BE._

Then Crowley issued a silent apology to their angel and swallow him whole. 

A note on what is happening. 

’Swallowed’ perhaps has the wrong connotations in this context, but there isn’t really a word to describe what Crowley did. They wrapped their essence around Aziraphale; they cradled him in them like their heart, like a mother wrapped around her child. They incorporated him into their being; separate, but still a part of them. It was not a thing that anyone had ever tried before. 

Crowley flung theirself back towards Earth. 

Their form once more became serpentine, a desperate attempt at aerodynamics that only worked because it never occurred to Crowley that it shouldn’t. They were vaguely aware of demons circling them, even snapped at a few, but there was a noise like a million flies and they fell back and Crowley resurfaced in his body, gasping for air like a human that’s been underwater for too long. 

Carefully, he peered inside himself. 

“Aziraphale?” he croaked, suddenly terrified that it hadn’t worked. But there, against his soul, packed into the same body with him, there was a sensation like soft white feathers brushing over him. 

Crowly closed his eyes with relief and cradled a hand over his heart, where he could feel Aziraphale’s bright spark. 

“Alright,” he breathed. Alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am of the belief that angels in their true form are genderless, and so get the pronoun they. Since Crowley spends a lot of time in his true form in this chapter, they use the 'they' pronoun a lot. If you pay attention, Aziraphale shifts into "they" too when he's threatening Gabriel, but it's only for a little bit.
> 
> The conference room idea is a spin on something from Paradise Lost.  
> The idea of everything being made of music is my little nod to my vague understanding of string theory.
> 
> There's one, maybe two more chapters left in this.


	6. Finis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets a new body.

Aziraphale drifted. 

His mind wandered through old memories and thoughts. He dreamt of falling, and then of an unpleasant fire that licked at his humming soul without doing any harm. Power washed over him in a wave, cooling the blaze. It felt like plants after a rainfall, open night skies, a car rocketing along to the beat of drums and the wail of a guitar, and questions asked in sarcasm and desperation. 

_Crowley_ , Aziraphale thought with a sigh, slipping deeper into sleep, comforted by his presence. 

Now he dreamt of soaring upward in the heart of a nebula, clouds of turquoise and silver cradling him as he slept. A constellation snake formed around him, stars igniting, watching him as he drifted. 

Finally, he woke up. 

The first thing he noticed was that he did not seem to possess eyes. Or hands. That is, there were eyes he could see through and hands he could feel, but they weren’t his. 

The second thing he noticed was what felt like Crowley’s soul, wrapped around his own. It was warm and comforting and felt like home in a way that even the bookshop didn’t–after all, he’d only had the bookshop for a century or two, but he’d known Crowley for millennia. He tentatively spread his wings, pressing them against Crowley in a gentle question. 

“Angel?” the demon’s voice asked, “are you awake?” 

_Yes. I think I can understand why you like sleep so much, my dear. That was quite interesting. Although I must ask, why do we appear to be sharing a body?_

“Yours got discorporated I’m afraid. Really, I’m wondering if that bookshop’s bad luck for you; 6000 years and the two times you’ve lost a body are sitting in it.” 

_Oh dear. What happened?_

“The frontal attack was a distraction. While we were focused on that, Hastur snuck in the back, disposed of your body and dragged your soul down to Hell.” Alarm sparked through Aziraphale; to Crowley, it felt like sparklers looked, golden, sharp, and bright. 

_Are we…_

_“_ Nah, I got us back out. Pretty sure they’ll leave us be now.” 

_Well, that’s good news at least._

Aziraphale paused to peer through Crowley’s eyes, taking in their surroundings. 

_My dear, where are we?_

Around them was nothing but rolling dunes, dimly illuminated by the millions of stars in the clear sky. 

Crowley glanced to his right, and the world shifted for a second. For half of one of the demon’s heartbeat, Aziraphale saw familiar towering walls and the vibrant green that peeked over the top. 

Hireath was an old Welsh word that meant longing for a home one could never return to. It felt like a cool fall wind and a parched desert as it rolled from Aziraphale’s soul into Crowley’s and out into the night air. 

“Between the Euphrates and the Mediterranean, or thereabouts,” Crowley answered after a silent moment. 

_Is there a reason why?_

Crowley looked down. The angel took a moment to orientate himself in the demon’s body. The form was longer and lankier than he was used to and had a certain restless energy that seemed to be built in– or maybe that was just Crowley. Currently, it was sitting cross-legged, staring at a pile of what looked like black sand, red and silver pebbles, and pale blue and white ice. 

_My dear, what is this?_

“Well, seeing as you don’t have a body anymore, I thought I’d try to make you another. Right here are all the big building blocks, fresh from the stars; I’ve got carbon, phosphorus, nitrogen, hydrogen, oxygen, and calcium…The problem is I don’t know how to put it together.” 

To Aziraphale, Crowley’s frustration felt like popping embers, hot and orange and able to flare up with any breath of help. He spread his wings and sang-sighed-murmured soothing words, spreading out the coals to cool off. 

_My dear, I know it takes teams of angels to create a single body. That’s why there's so much fuss and paperwork involved when one gets discorporated, and I don’t imagine the demons do much better. Only the Almighty can create human bodies easily; it may take some time before you can even assemble a skeleton._

_“_ But itsss not fair to you, to keep you stuck in here with me. Not that I mind sharing space, but, well….” 

_We are two separate individuals. It's perfectly natural that we each want a body to our own. You have no reason to be apologetic about not wanting me sharing yours for an extended period of time._

Relief was cool water on a summer day, the idea of homemade chicken noodle soup during a cold, taking off a jacket and relaxing into home. 

“Love you angel,” the words escaped Crowley’s lips on the faintest of breaths; had Aziraphale had his own body, he would have never heard them. 

But he felt the motion of Crowley’s throat, the lips and tongue that traced the words into the welcoming star-strewn air. 

Crowley’s sudden burst of anxiety was a thorny flower, sending roots tangling down into his gut, scratching thorns up his chest, unfurling leaves forcing motion into limbs that had never learned what do with themselves and blooming a choking flower in the back of his throat. 

Aziraphale gently tugged the flower free, casting it aside. Hesitantly at first, forcing his way through thousands of years of fear and silence he opened his hands ( _his wings his soul his heart his being_ ) and showed Crowley what was at his core. 

It was… It was the first note of Creation, it was pure white light and radiant darkness; it was sunrises and moons and stars, it was the birds singing to greet them all; six thousand years of laughter and meetings and food and drink, six thousand years of friendship instead of hatred. It was six thousand years finally being able to look back and recognize what had happened. 

It was six thousand years of love. 

_I am an angel. My wings are white and strong and can carry me however high I choose to go. When the War came I did not Fall, but oh my darling, my dear, for all of that I’ve spent a very long time Falling._

_I love you too._

The Almighty is, first and foremost, a being of love. When the demons had been cast out, they lost their ability to feel that love and any lesser extensions thereof. (This is why Crowley has spent the last millennia convinced that there is no way Aziraphale could actually love him; Aziraphale’s excuse is general obliviousness coupled with worryingly low self-esteem.) (That, and they’re both idiots.) 

What this means is that Crowley had been cold and freezing for a very long time. He had gotten used to being numb, convinced himself that there was nothing else. Aziraphale had done the metaphorical equivalent of wrapping him in a heated blanket and giving him a cup of rich hot cocoa. 

Crowley _trembled as_ that warmth rushed through him, inside and out, shook as he suddenly regained feeling in parts of his being that he thought that had been lost forever in his Fall. 

_Oh, my love. It’s alright. It’s okay._

_“’_ M fine,” Crowley gasped, wrapping his arms around himself, “’sokay.” 

_You’re crying._

_“_ Demons-- Demons can’t cry…” But there was a warm wetness dripping from his eyes and he knocked off his glasses as he dragged a forearm across his eyes. “’s not tears, ‘m not crying.” 

_Of course my dear, of course._

_“MY CHILDREN_.” There was a voice in the wilderness, a light where before there had been nothing. Crowley jerked and the light coalesced into a human shape. Kind of. 

She was human, She was entirely blazing dark/light, she was a Mobius strip with two edges, she was a shape with one dimension or infinitely many. 

Aziraphale’s soul sang a pure joyous note at her presence and the whole landscape was blessed for miles. 

Crowley’s reaction was more mixed. His soul hummed a low abandonment made of questions without answers, of a long hard Fall, and every lost child’s desperate wish for love and an explanation. If there had been any humans within hearing, they would’ve fallen to the ground and wept. Aziraphale offered shelter under his wings and Crowley curled beneath it, head poking out and tongue nervously testing the air. 

She smiled at them both and reached out to the pile of raw elements Crowley had assembled. It twisted and reformed and while it was doing that She reached out and gently tugged Aziraphale’s soul from Crowley’s body. In a way, Aziraphale’s soul in her hands resembled a bird, darting slightly from side to side with graceful motions. But it was also…more in some indescribable, ineffable way and Crowley knew that when the world did come to end and all that was left of them was this, he would recognize Aziraphale’s being even if it was surrounded by a million other angels. 

She gently placed the soul into the new heart and let the body finish forming. Then she gently cupped Aziraphale's face as he blinked into awareness and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. It left a glowing silver mark that quickly faded. 

Then She turned to Crowley and hugged him tightly. 

He shuddered once, twice and then broke down, weeping into her shoulder/wing. 

“ _MY GREATEST JOY AND MY GREATEST GRIEF WAS WHEN I GAVE MY CREATIONS FREE WILL. I SAW WHAT THE DEMONS WOULD DO, AND I SAW THAT THE ANGELS WERE NO BETTER. I DID NOT AND DO NOT WANT ARMAGEDDON. THUS I PUT AZIRAPHALE IN CHARGE OF THE EASTERN GATE SO THAT HE WOULD LEARN TO LOVE HUMANITY. I LET YOU FALL BECAUSE HE WAS GOING TO NEED SOMEONE TO CONVINCE HIM THAT THE ANGELS WERE NO DIFFERENT THAN THE DEMONS, HE WAS GOING TO NEED SOMEONE TO PUSH HIM INTO ASKING WHY. AND I SAW THAT YOU WOULD NEED SOMEONE TO HELP YOU KEEP YOUR FAITH, IF NOT IN ME THEN IN THAT THERE WAS SUCH A THING AS GOOD IN MY CREATION. TAKE HEART CROWLEY; I HAVE A PLAN BUT ITS RATHER INEFFABLE FROM YOUR STANDPOINT.”_

She gave him one last squeeze and placed a kiss on his forehead. It rippled through him, a small fire during a biting winter night, and stayed, crackling in his being. 

The world twisted and She was gone and they were once more sitting in the back of Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

The angel looked around and sat down heavily in his chair, looking like someone had hit him over the head with his original copy of the Lord of the Rings. 

Crowley just kind of collapsed into a snake, a half coiled puddle of scales on the wooden floorboards. Eventually, Aziraphale reached down and scooped him up, draping him carefully around his seat. 

They both sat there for a very long time. 

Finally, Aziraphale spoke. 

“My love, would you consider moving out of London for a couple of decades at the least? I’ve heard there’s a lovely cottage in the South Downs whose owners are trying to find a buyer.” 

Later, when they’d settle in Adam and Anathema swung by and told them immediately that there was a mark on both their foreheads– Anathema described it as a ‘bright white light that blanketed their auras’, while Adam said it looked like a shield. 

The angel and the demon gave each other sidelong glances and decided to move on with life. After a decade or two, Heaven and Hell both began exchanging very, very, polite messages with them. Both Gabriel and Beelzebub looked like they were going to pass out when they came to ‘check in’ and left in a hurry, eyes trained on Crowley and Aziraphale’s foreheads. 

As for the angel and the demon, they spent their time contentedly in that cottage. Crowley started a garden that took up most of the yard (he no longer screamed at his plants), oftentimes growing edibles for his angel who was learning to cook. He also grew grapes, and many a neighbor commented that that nice couple down the way made the best wine. Aziraphale started a smaller collection of books and never had to worry about anyone trying to buy them. After the sun had gone down he would often read to Crowley in a low murmuring voice that lulled the demon to sleep. 

And you know what? 

They all, the Them, Newt and Anathema, and most especially Aziraphale and Crowley, lived happily ever after. 

_Finis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter. I enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoyed reading!  
> May your stories be well-written, may your shows be well-thought-out, and may your life be joyous.  
> Farewell and Goodbye!


End file.
